


Oh, Ow, Everything Hurts

by TheArchaeologist



Series: Snow and Pine [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (Mentions of) Caryn Pines, (Mentions of) Filbrick Pines, (Mentions of) Ford Pines, AU, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Blood, Blood Loss, Drama, Feels, Gen, Gore, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, Stan Pines whump, Stangst, Swearing, Werewolf Stan Pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 13:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17023296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: In some dingy toilet block in some equally dingy town, Stan deals with a certain bite with as much grace as someone with half an arm almost bitten off can.





	Oh, Ow, Everything Hurts

Well, shit.

The public bathroom is grotty, gross, stained with old fluid marks he would rather not think about and mould he would rather not see. The sinks bleed water that reeks of rust, and the mirrors are scrawled with scribbled graffiti and dodgy phone numbers. 

His heart hits against his ribs as if a factory machine constantly slamming metal tin lids onto cans, pumping blood far too fast around his body and echoing inside his brain. When he swallows, he can still taste the salt of tears and the cries of agony that scratched the roof of his mouth.

The shirt Stan holds around his arm has been soaked through.

He’s lucky it’s whatever o’clock in the morning. If it was daytime, someone would come barging in here and have the fright of their lives. Maybe they would try and help, or call an ambulance to whisk him away to hospital. Another ward, another bill he would have to dodge for several years.

Maybe they wouldn’t help him; maybe they would rob him blind instead. Maybe they would yank away the duffle bag containing all his worldly goods, or swipe his car keys from his pocket. Maybe they would decide to put him out of his misery, and pull the trigger at point blank range. Or maybe they would knife him, wedge it right into his gut and twist it around, creating smoothies with his innards.

Would his parents come identify his body? Would they have it flown out to them, at the expense of the state? Would Dad deny that the torn-apart dirty hobo was his son, and claim that there was a mistake? Would Mom cry? Would they argue? Mom had always been determined to keep tabs on him, even if she only had a vague sense of where he was in the country. Stan couldn’t call often; he had people from all over the place after him, if they knew where to track his family down…

He sways and leans his hips against the edge of the sink, filth be damned.

His fingers are turning slippery, the sodden shirt dipping red all over his shoes and the floor. At this point, it’s doing little to stem the bleeding and is just channelling it through the material instead. As he shakily reaches for the tap, he smears deep dark crimson all over the handle.

The pipes splutter noisily into life, and the tap chokes out its attempt at clean water. It’s not particularly close.

This is going to suck.

This is going to suck all the way to Hell and back.

Letting the shirt drop uselessly to the floor, Stan braces, eyes squeezing shut and breath shaking, before shoving his arm into the half-trickle, half-flow. Once again is thankful for the hour when it results in a throat-jarring scream that tears his voice box clear in two.

Muscle and veins recoil from the ice cold water, constricting together and making his left hand spasm and clench. Liquid fuzzes his eyes, dribbling down his cheeks to splat onto his ruined clothes as he sharply sucks in and out piss-stained air in a manner that is far too ragged to have any resemblance of calm. The drain spins red.

The minute he elected to compose himself turns into four, his skin shivering and his very marrow aching something terrible, but eventually Stan is able to muster up the withering courage to sneak a look.

The injury is large, and ugly, and round, and all encasing, and too close to something out of those bad monster films that get played on motel TVs at one in the morning. Each tooth has dug in deep, carving out decent sized caves into his limb and even without some wall decorating medical license Stan knows this will scar _bad._

The only saving grace amongst all the gore is the fact that the teeth didn’t reach bone, but as he swallows back down his pathetic excuse for a dinner this isn’t much of a positive. The acid burns his tongue.

Clean it, and wrap it up. That’s all he’s gotta do. 

Step one, check. Now for the fun part.

Arm still thrusted under the water, because if he _doesn’t_ it’s going to bleed absolutely everywhere, Stan awkwardly leans down for his duffle bag. He leans a bit too far, actually, and whacks his head against the off-colour tiled wall. Stars dance for a brief moment, but his searching hand is able to lock onto the zip and tug it open, feeling around inside for the bandages packet.

Because _of course_ it’s in a packet. Why wouldn’t it be? Why does the universe need to make Stan’s life any easier for him?

“Come on…Come on…”

The dizziness really begins to hit as he stands straight again, helpfully blacking out his vision for a second while his pulse decides to play drums in his ears. He staggers, splashing water over his front, a noise escaping him from deep within.

This is fine, this is _fine_ , he just needs to bandage it. He’s fine.

Blinking rapidly, Stan brings the packet up to his mouth and tugs, his canine piercing the material with a puff of air. It tears, ripping clean in two and sending the roll of bandages flying into the wall, slipping past his reaching hand to land nicely amongst the horrors of the floor.

Son of a shit-eating rabbit.

Stan practically bites his tongue clean in half when he smacks his chin into the sink trying to reach it, but he manages to grab it, blowing off the dirty specks and giving it a wipe on his rolled-up sleeve. Not that his sleeve is much better, mind. But he’s got limited options here.

Finding the edge, he unravels the bandage into a long line, and wraps the beginnings of it around his untouched elbow.

“Ok, ok Stan. On the count of three. You gotta…You gotta do this quick, or it’ll bleed everywhere.”

His mirrors reflection looks about as confident as he does, and in that moment his breathing hitches and he can feel his eyes watering again. It takes a minute for his force of will to wish it away. 

“One…”

Not for the first time, he wonders where Ford’s ended up. Mom had said he went off to college, despite everything that happened, and there was something about a grant, but he has no idea where his brother was living now. Probably in some fancy house. Hopefully.

“Two…”

His eyelids are beginning to droop, a deep wiggling exhaustion tugging at them and beckoning them like sirens. But he just needs to keep going for a little longer. He’s almost there, just a bit more…

“T-Three.”

With teeth grit together so hard they must be sinking into his jaws, Stan whips out his arm from the water, splattering the mirror with rusty droplets. He wraps the bandages quickly, looping over and over as tightly as he can bear to smother away the injury, hide it up from sight, erase it out from his mind and never have to think about it again. His wet skin turns the material soggy, and the stench of the water clings to him as if a terrible perfume. His muscles shriek as they are bound, and in an instant the cream wrappings tinge red, but it works, kind of, and he manages to tie the end one-handed. 

There. Cleaned and wrapped, as you’re supposed to do. It’ll be fine now. It usually is on the TV shows.

Stepping back from the sink, his foot slips on the soaked shirt and Stan goes tilting towards the wall, and perhaps it says something about his current state of mind, but he doesn’t shriek, or jolt, or yelp. Instead an emotion inside just _breaks_ , and he readily excepts his fate as he goes barging his shoulder into the solid surface, swimming his head something terrible.

Perhaps he should have tried to catch himself, because he _did_ bite his tongue this time. Stan swallows away the warm iron.

“Alright, you’re done now,” He informs the strange blue stain on the wall, the one right by his eyeball, “Let’s go home.”

He misses the strap for his duffle bag three times when he goes to grab it, but manages to swing it over his shoulder on the fourth attempt. The shirt remains a sorry mess on the ground, and he leaves it exactly there. 

Not like anyone else in this god awful town had taken care of the bogs, why should he?

As he pushes open the bathroom door, Stan is met with a sun only just beginning to peak over the horizon, its indigo splashes tickling the edges of the purple sky still dotted with specks of silver. He squints, bringing up his good hand to shade his eyes, and runs his tongue over his teeth. His arm stings, weeps, the veins pulsating as they struggle, and he lets it hang stiff to his side.

“Home…”

Home is his car, his beautiful, glorious, wonder of a car, broken heating be damned. The threaded blanket on the back seats calls to him, and, as if his attire isn’t completely coated in his own blood, Stan marches off in the direction he (illegally) parked it in, rolling down his sleeve as he does so.

The wound will be fine. He’s sorted it. It’ll scar, but it will eventually heal and he can put this whole ordeal behind him, just like all the others. Stan’s has been shot and stabbed for Christ’s sake; he can handle a bite from a mutt.

He’ll be just fine.

The temperature is meant to be this warm this time of year, right?

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally, 100%, completely fine.


End file.
